


Heartless, They Called Him

by ThisShipSailsItself



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 23:12:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisShipSailsItself/pseuds/ThisShipSailsItself
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is home, but how will John react? The first fanfic I ever wrote. Friendship, but you don't have to squint very hard at all to see Romance ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlocks POV

Heartless, They Called Him.

He's supposed to be above this. Heartless, they called him. Machine. Robot. Freak. He used to agree. He used to take pride in it. Caring is never an advantage, after all. But then, if he's so terribly reliably informed in regards to his heart, why is it currently thumping an erratic beat in his ears? It's not even supposed to _be_ there. But it is. And it's picked a hell of a time to make itself known. A hell of a time to rebel against his mind's orders to _settle down. You're only transport._ In this moment, he hates it more than he has ever hated anything in his life. More than Mycroft sticking his fat arse into his private affairs, more than Moriarty's game, even more than Anderson's unfathomable idiocy. He hates it because right now, on the other side of the door, john sits in 221B. Good, kind, patient John. Whose waited three years. Whose going to be furious. Who's going to want an explanation. Who may very well choose to walk out this door, like so many times before, and decide that unlike before, he's never coming back. And Sherlock knows that he will never, _never_ recover from that. Heartless, they called him. If only they'd been right.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johns POV

John Watson is having a panic attack. They used to call him brave. Unflappable. Unfaltering. Fearless. He used to agree. He used to take pride in it. But then why is the knowledge that his sociopathic room mate is standing on the other side of the door causing his heart to beat so erratically in his ears? He'd thought he saw the swish of a familiar coat headed towards the flat when he'd glanced out the window moments ago. But familiar as it was, he knew it was impossible. _Pull it together, soldier. You kept your wits through a bloody war, don't go losing them now._ And taking a steadying sip of tea, he'd prepared himself for another bland night in, but then he'd heard a knock below. Then the bewildered voice of his Mrs. Hudson. And he could hear Sherlock's arrogant voice in his head telling him to _observe the evidence._ And it doesn't take a Holmes to make out Mrs. Hudson's lecture about 'just popping off for three years, with no word to anyone.' Then there are steps. And damn that absolute arse. Because as if three years wasn't long enough. Now he's hovering outside the door. Probably preparing for an entrance equal parts dramatic and blasé, as only the consulting detective himself could manage. And John knows what he ought to do. He ought to storm right out that door and never, _never_ come back. Except, he doesn't think he'd ever recover from losing him again. Sherlock Holmes is back from the dead. And that is certainly unexpected. And God, has he missed _unexpected._ All the same, this confrontation is going to be anything but pretty. And with the way his body is betraying him now, he's not sure he has the nerve. Brave, they used to call him. If only they'd been right


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlocks POV

John had always seen his heart, but would he be able to read his mind? He would know, without being told, that there was a bigger reason behind his "death" than the game. Perhaps, he had even put together that such a drastic step out of the spotlight he loved could only have been borne out of a stupid, _sentimental_ need to protect. That there had been lives on the line. After all, John was not a stupid man. And Sherlock highly doubts three years has changed that. And he'd always had that irritating habit of looking beyond the sociopath façade. And even if he hadn't quite worked it all out yet, there was one thing Sherlock knew beyond a shadow of a doubt. John would understand. He was a soldier, a doctor. He would understand doing what needed to be done to get the job done. But would he forgive? He could be so terribly, wonderfully unpredictable. Would he be able to read the apology on his mind? The one Sherlock knew would never come out sounding quite the way he intended. Sentiment had not been his area _before_ years spent alone under cover with the seediest criminals the world had to offer. Now? How could Sherlock find the words to adequately describe the fact that _of course,_ there had been a bigger game at hand; _obviously,_ there had been lives on the line. But when had he ever cared about any of that? All of it, every second, had been for John. John was his heart. And john _had_ his heart. Could a heart have itself? _Irrelevant paradoxical line of thought borne of an overwrought emotional state. Delete._ He would just have to trust John to know what to do. Know what to say. Know how to read between the lines. He hates himself for being so ignorant about such matters. A Holmes is _never_ supposed to be ignorant. He takes a deep breath, and reaches for the door knob. John had always seen his heart, this time, he would just have to read his mind as well.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johns POV

Sherlock had always read his mind, but would he be able to see his heart? He knew the detective would know he understood. For all the arrogant sod's bluster, he was human. And Moriarty had promised to _burn the heart out of him._ John was not a stupid man. And he'd had three years now to think it over. There was far more to Sherlock's jump than what it appeared to be. Sherlock would not have stepped out of his spotlight for anything less than a necessity. And the good opinion of the masses had never been a necessity. So yes, he understood that much. And he even understood doing what needed to be done to get the job done. He was a soldier after all. A doctor. He also knew that nothing would escape Sherlock's notice when he walked in. Even John could see the signs of his grief, glaring back at him from every corner of the flat. _A kitchen still filled with equipment. A violin sitting untouched where it was left so many years ago. A bedroom door that had never even been opened. The fact that he still hadn't gotten around to searching for a new flat._ Patient as ever, John had waited for a man who, for all anyone knew, was never coming home. Yes, the world's greatest and only consulting detective would see it all. Was probably expecting to see it. But would Sherlock see _why?_ He always had been dense about matters of the heart. He doubted three years had changed that. He tried to tell himself none of it mattered. _If he wants you to, you'll stay. You'll always stay._ The real question was, could John _forgive?_ He didn't know. He supposed it all depended on what happened next. John could feel the significance of this moment. The danger of it. And as the door knob began to turn, a memory floated through his head _'I said danger, and here you are…'_ And then, Sherlock, very much alive, was standing in front of him. And he did something neither of them saw coming. He took a couple short, brisk, military steps forward, until he was right up in what would be Sherlock's personal space, if the man had ever had any. "Sherlock," he breathed. And then he was hugging him. Because _damn it,_ he'd begged and pleaded and bargained for this miracle. And here it was. And then, another miracle: Sherlock was hugging him back. After a moment or a lifetime of clinging to each other, and tears he would never admit to later- _tears? What tears? I'm a grown man who served time in Afghanistan. I've been shot. I don't cry_ -suddenly it was all too much. He pushed Sherlock away from him and stepped back.

"I need air. I need to leave." He gasped. The panic appeared to be back with a vengeance.

"Forever?" Sherlock asked, his face a mask of indifference John hardly thought necessary after they'd just _hugged._ Did the ridiculous man really expect him to buy the robot act after that?

"No," he said slowly as the panic left him as swiftly as it had come. "Not forever."

"Why?" And his voice was so genuine, the question so sincere, that John couldn't help but answer honestly.

"Because you came back. You came back home and I hate your guts you selfish git and you will explain all of it. Every bit of it. Even the things you think are irrelevant. Because you owe me at least that much." John paused for breath. "And because I forgive you."

"It took me three years." Sherlock stated, obviously filing away the emotional part of Johns speech in favor of the logistics. He couldn't help a slight, rusty, fond smile. It was a so very Sherlock thing to do.

"It won't take me that long. And when I come back, I'm going to make us some tea, and you are going to eat something, because look at you, skinnier than ever. You've not taken nearly enough care of yourself." He tsked. "And then we are both going to bed because having your best mate come back from the dead is apparently an emotionally draining experience-who would have guessed-and I'm _knackered._ "

Sherlock seemed to struggle internally for a moment, and then managed a very rushed, "I…I have missed you John."

"I've missed you too, Sherlock. But of course, I'm sure you can tell that from a crease in the leg of my trousers." He smirked. And then Sherlock smiled what he suspected was his first genuine smile in three years.

"From the stain on your sweater actually. Really John, will you never learn to observe…" And then they both laughed, and John didn't think he'd ever heard such a wonderful sound. It died away and their eyes met. Just for a second. But it was enough.

Because in that moment, for the very first time, Sherlock Holmes got a glimpse of John Watson's heart. And John Watson got a peek at Sherlock Holmes' mind. And one thing was blindingly clear to both of them. This was not the end of this fight. Not by a long shot. Tomorrow, the shock of the moment would be gone, and John would be furious. And once he'd patched up Sherlock's broken nose, Sherlock would have three years worth of explanations to give. And then there would be coming clean to Lestrade, the Yard, the world. So no, this was not an end. This was a new beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it folks. Not my best work, but it's my first, so I'm still quite proud of it haha I'll post more of my work as time goes on, so if you thought this was okay, know that my work only gets better from here! (hopefully)
> 
> Please let me know what you think!


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